Practicality
by modernboys
Summary: A one shot scene involving snow, streetlights and snogging. Seamus/Dean. Slash.


**Title: **Practicality**  
Genre: **Ro...mance. God I hate that word.**  
Rating: **Mature. Cos it's suggestive and that.**  
Pairings: **Deamus.**  
A/N: **One shot created from the prompt "snow".

* * *

Seamus isn't sure who initiates it first. He thinks it's probably him, because he can't imagine that sort of gutsy manoeuvre coming from Dean, but who knows. They're drunk and giddy and high on life and Seamus isn't quite sure what either of them're capable of any more.

Either way it doesn't matter, because the only thing he knows is that he's suddenly finding himself with his back slammed up against a frost bitten streetlamp and Dean's hands are weighted and strong and curling around his shoulders. His own hands are fisting into the lapels of Dean's snow dappled morning coat that was once black, but is now slowly turning the same hue as the white waistcoat buttoned smartly beneath, thanks to the generous assistance of the weather, and he's acutely aware of the desperate, ragged pulse beating a rapid drum under his knuckles, that may or may not simply be the raging echo of his own heart.

Dean smells like Old Spice and Firewhisky and something reminiscently deep and familiar, like wet pine trees and the heavy cinnamon and fresh timber air of Christmas Eve. Like childhood. Seamus blinks and in that momentary darkness he's back there once more, far too young and situations reversed, sniggering illogical blethered shite into a half tipsy Dean's ear, as he half heartedly pins his friend into that itchy, worn out Gryffindor armchair that could give you friction burns just from looking at it too long.

And then he opens his eyes again and they're close, so close. So inexorably, inexplicably close that when Dean flicks his tongue out to lick a stray snowflake that's settled on his bottom lip Seamus can see the shimmering film of moisture left glittering across the plump brown surface. Tantalising. Waiting. And a moment of authentic Gryffindor courage has Seamus swooping in, capturing that lower lip in a nip between his own.

The kiss is slow and deliberate, starts off as a simple long press of lips against lips that seems to last forever, neither daring to move and take it any further and Seamus' absolutely terrified that Dean's over-thinking and going to pull away from him at any moment. Then Dean finally gives in and caves and Seamus can't help but feel as though it's like his mate's just let down some sort of disciplined wall, because he's finding himself sandwiched between the hard metal of the lamppost and the firm, press of Dean's chest and his mate's sort of folding smoothly into him like they were meant to be that way all along. Like pieces of jigsaw puzzle finally slotting on home.

Seamus tilts his head back, feels his crown connect with the streetlight, and tips it slightly to the right, deepening the angle of the kiss. He's aware Dean's hands have moved from his shoulders and that one's now pressed flat palmed into the small of his back and the other's shifted upwards to curl its long fingers around the back of his neck and prop a thumb under the edge of his jaw, keeping his head up.

Their legs are interlocked, and there's a crunching of snow being trampled beneath feet as Seamus shifts his weight to one side, lifting the leg currently not trapped between Dean's thighs, and planting the sole of his shoe against the streetlight as his whole body kind of relaxes and sinks back into it. He presses his thigh and the side of his bent knee into Dean and disengages his hands from where they've been clenched into Dean's jacket, hooking them around his mate's neck instead and locking them into place with one hand clamped around the opposite wrist.

He's glad he's drunk, because the street they're fondling one another on is lined with the type of quiet, suburban, detached houses his mam always wanted and he can practically see the gossiping housewives peeping through the gaps in their net curtains at the two of them in his mind's eye. He can only imagine the sight. Him and Dean dressed in suits and snogging like young and lusty teenagers against a lamp in the middle of the road, the warm, tangerine glow pooling around them, snow falling in drifting hushed spirals.

They look like soppy prats. He knows it. But it's worth it, isn't it. And he's got what can only be described as almost the entire contents of a brewery sloshing around inside his stomach, so it's not like he hasn't got an alibi for looking like a twat anyway. And besides, it's been over sixteen years. It's about time he got what he wanted and he's not going to let something as trivial as appearances stop him now. Especially now that Dean's tongue's doing an unexpected dip into his mouth and Seamus can taste chocolate and beer and something else he can't put his finger on but that's just so distinctly Dean.

Dean's mouth and breath is warm and inviting, a pleasant contrast to the chilly night air and ice surrounding them. Seamus is cold, his cutaway tailcoat doing nothing to protect him from the elements, because wedding attire isn't exactly tailored to keep you warm during midnight walks back home in half blizzards and he kind of wants to inwardly curse Harry and Ginny for having the pure cheek to torture everyone with a winter wedding instead of something practical.

But then neither Harry nor Ginny have ever been all that practical have they? And to Seamus' surprise, he's finding that he's actually quite glad of that impracticality for once in his life. Because if Mrs Potter nee Weasley was practical, she'd be a certain Mrs Thomas right now and he'd be doing this walk home alone and there'd be no snow or streetlights or nosey neighbours and certainly no Dean's tongue doing a thorough exploration of his back molars.

When they break apart, they're both panting softly, and Seamus gives a mild frown as Dean rests his forehead against his, noses sitting sidelong against one another. He's so close to Dean that trying to look at him and read any expression currently taking position on his mate's face sends him uncooperatively cross-eyed. He doesn't want to distance himself, however, and settles for allowing his eyes to drift closed and he's almost sure Dean's doing the same thing, because neither of them are moving or saying anything, neither one wanting to be the half that breaks away first.

The sound of an approaching vehicle makes the decision for them however, and they both snap back to reality and turn to look up the street, where the dim amber lights of a car are now approaching through the wispy sheets of snow. Dean instantly startles and pulls away from him, taking several steps back until he's almost stood on the other side of the pavement, his hands instinctively finding the pockets of his trousers and a look on his face reminiscent of a kid who's just been caught red handed in the act of doing something bad.

Seamus doesn't blame him really, because there's a horrible self conscious and perhaps even half mortified sensation rising his own stomach that's not at all different to the one he felt back when he was fifteen and his mam walked in on him wanking. Only this time he isn't fifteen. And he isn't wanking. And it isn't his mam that's wandered in on him. And it's all he can do to remain leaning against the lamppost and watch the car drive slowly past them.

It's not like the driver of the car is anyone they know, or even like they're doing anything wrong. They're both consenting adults even though they're both a bit pissed, or in his case, quite very nearly slaughtered, but Seamus can't help but feel guilty and caught out, and like some fiddling con-artist mate who's just swindled Dean into a self gratifying lip lock, despite the fact that it was Dean who pushed him up against the streetlight in the first place. And he guesses it has something to do with the fact that Dean's desperately averting his gaze as well.

Rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck with one hand, he turns questioning, half hopeful hazel eyes on his mate once the car has passed. But Dean's already mumbling something about getting home before they both catch a death of pneumonia and looking anywhere apart from at Seamus as he starts off down the street.

There's a hollow thunk as Seamus' head rolls back and collides with metal, combined with a frustrated growl being bitten back by gritted teeth and he squeezes his eyes shut tight, feeling the cold smatter of snowflakes alighting across his face. A shattered sigh and then the frantic, frustrated rubbing of a calloused palm across lightly freckled features and somewhere in the distance he hears a soft, "Shay?" And when he finally looks in that direction Dean's standing half way down the road, eyebrows raised, eyeing him expectantly.

"Coming." Seamus mutters, slinking off of the streetlight and trudging towards him, head down and shoulders bunched, hands sunk deep into his pockets, suddenly shivering now that Dean's body heat's gone from its close proximity with his.

And then he hears it. That one sentence that makes his jaw drop and all the hairs on his body stand up to attention and a lot more besides.

"You will be."

And he's barely in time to raise his head and catch the suggestive smirk tugging at one corner of Dean's lips before a snowball is making a direct crash collision with his head, exploding with a soft puff against his cheek and momentarily blinding him with an icy cloud of white. And by the time he's recovered his senses enough to gain back his eyesight and shake the snow from his hair, Dean's already shot off down the road, his figure now nothing but a tall, dark smudge moving in elegant stark contrast against the spinning slants of pure white snow.

Seamus grins.

Maybe they don't have to be quite so practical either.


End file.
